


Red Thread

by oldmythologies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Reminiscing, Shiro POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:27:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmythologies/pseuds/oldmythologies
Summary: The story of how Keith comes to own a small, stuffed, purple hippo.A commission for dragonescence <3





	Red Thread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lionescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionescence/gifts).



The markets, oddly enough, felt more familiar than the castle. Packed shoulder to shoulder with race after race of alien, no two with the same face, Shiro could fade in. Here, he wasn’t the tallest, his two toned hair had no reason to shock, and the stripe across his nose could be any variety of alien trait. When everyone looked different, no one was. If anyone spent more than a moment looking at his face, at the line of his jaw or the slope of his cheekbones, they’d probably be able to recognize the Champion, the warrior who disappeared from their holoscreens months ago.

No one ever looked twice.

It was familiar in its unfamiliarity. He remembered visiting India, Southeast Asia, European markets and Pike Place in Seattle. It was loud, all the signs were in a foreign language, and everything smelled weird.

Just like Earth.

He had volunteered to get whatever Hunk needed, but really, he needed it himself. He needed air.

Scientifically, mathematically, the air at the castle equalled perfection.

So had the air in his cell.

Here, it stuck to his skin. The people cried out their wares instead of their bloodlust. It tasted not like dust and blood but like spice and oil and heat. He saw the entire range of colors on their skin; it was a mess and he loved it.

He followed his nose to the spice aisle and spent time talking to every single vendor, hoping that his smile was translated along with his words as he haggled. He bought one of everything.

The last kiosk in the row wasn’t selling spices.

It was a junk drawer. Shiro could swear there was probably a rusty paperclip in the piles of debris. His eyes caught on the few pieces of detritus from Earth. He grinned at the game console; it was much cheaper here than it had been at the mall. _Well, that was just how capitalism and malls worked, right?_

Shiro laughed at the bad joke in his head. The many armed, sea-foam green clerk glared and Shiro schooled his face back to neutral.

It felt like school. He felt young, like the teacher had caught him passing a note in class, one that read “ _do you like me?_ ”

He remembered that note.

It had been a long time since he’d felt like that.

He made sure not to make eye contact as he bit his bottom lip and continued to scan the mismatched shelves.

Then he saw the hippo.

It was very clearly well loved. The fluffy fabric wasn’t fluffy anymore in most places and the right arm was threadbare and had been sewed back on in massive, uneven stitches at least twice at the shoulder. The red thread stood out against the lilac fabric.

The plastic eyes were scuffed, but underneath the surface Shiro could see the glitter suspended in clear plastic. He wondered where it came from. It was from Earth; he could see the embroidered logo on one of its feet.

He tried not to think about how a stuffed children’s toy from Earth wound up in an alien market. He tried not to think of the child who was missing it.

He couldn’t help but picture Keith.

Keith, who never asked about it unless he was drunk, who missed his dad and wanted to have some memory of a mom to miss. Keith, who had confessed on the roof of their dorms over a contraband bottle of Smirnoff’s that he used to have a hippo. When the arm fell off, someone had sewn it back on. He couldn’t remember who.

He liked to pretend it was his mom.

When Shiro had dropped off drunk, clingy Keith at his room that night, he’d told Shiro in tired, slurred sentences that he missed that dumb hippo. He loved hippos.

Shiro didn’t hesitate to hand over the last of his GAC, tucking it safely in his bag, leaving just the scuffed, silver eyes to shine up at him.


End file.
